At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  Wyatt strode through the crowd in his worn trousers and faded blue shirt. As usual, he was dressed for work, and as Miranda scanned the crowd, she realized that Isaac was the exception. He was also the only man besides Grandfather not bent over the wooden framework of the walls that would soon go up. Instead he was talking to the ladies.

  One by one the frames were completed and men gathered in anticipation of the raising. The reverend removed his hat, wiped his shiny forehead with his handkerchief, and then motioned someone forward to pray over their endeavor.

  It was Wyatt.

  Astonished, Miranda turned to Isaac, but he’d already bowed his head and closed his eyes. Miranda’s eyes refused to close. Wyatt leading a public prayer? What kind of church was this? But no one else reacted with shock. Just a hearty Amen! when he was finished.

  Had Grandfather seen that? Miranda turned to look for him, but instead she saw Mr. Fowler, the leader of the vigilantes.

  “That Ballentine boy—you keep your eye on him.” He swung his sledgehammer absently as one might swing a pocket watch on a chain.

  “Why, what’s he done?”

  The man fixed her with a withering stare. “I’m not accusing Wyatt, I’m bragging on him. He works hard. He’s trustworthy. I’m a sure judge of character, and I’m telling you Wyatt Ballentine is going to be someone.”

  Miranda watched as Wyatt bent and grasped the frame on the ground. At the count he strained with the other men and heaved the heavy skeleton upright. He was strong, but they had strong men back home. You could find muscle for hire in any rotting alley. But Mr. Fowler wasn’t entirely wrong. Something about Wyatt set him apart. He had the respect of these people, but they weren’t completely at ease with him. Besides Betsy, did he have any friends?

  Isaac stopped at her side and followed her gaze to his brother. “Wyatt always gets fawned over at church. That’s why he likes it so much. When we were little his favorite story was about Joseph. I think he imagined that all his dreams of grandeur and superiority were God-ordained.”

  Miranda eyed the man with the ragged beard and dirty work clothes. What was the matter with these two? Must she contradict Isaac and defend Wyatt now? Couldn’t they leave her out of their bickering? “I haven’t noticed him being too proud,” she murmured.

  “Did you know we’re not brothers? He’s adopted.”

  “Adopted?” Her eyes traveled swiftly over Isaac, looking for a resemblance.

  “Yep. Ma and Pa told him how his parents died on a wagon train in Kansas. That’s how they got him when we were young. But he turned it into some epic saga and liked to pretend he was the son of some rich man from a powerful family.”

  Wyatt? Miranda really shouldn’t laugh, but the thought was ludicrous. She shook her head in disbelief. Not rough and tumble Wyatt with his burly shoulders, his raw expressions, and his passionate, barely-controlled temper. Although there was that moment at the Rineharts’, sitting in the velvet chair . . .

  She tossed her head to dispel the image. “What did your parents say?”

  “They encouraged him—speculated on how important he might be, and then they’d hold him up as an example when he did something good. ‘Why can’t you work as hard as Wyatt? Why don’t you say, “Yes, ma’am,” like Wyatt?’ My brothers couldn’t stand it. They left as soon as they were able.”

  “So what happened? What brought him down?”

  “The truth.” Isaac motioned her toward the water bucket. He took out the dipper and offered her the first cool drink, but Miranda wasn’t that thirsty—had never been that thirsty in her life. “Ma had some information about his uncle. They’d tried to contact him right away when Wyatt’s folks had died, but they didn’t get anywhere. Later, when Ma and Pa were getting on in years, they told Wyatt they’d try again. They did, and this time he got a reply. You should have seen how excited Wyatt was when word came back. He walked into the kitchen and handed Ma the letter, shaking too much to open it himself. Well, she read it, turned white as an egg, folded it up, and tossed it into the kitchen stove.”

  “Why? What did it say?”

  Isaac crossed his arms and looked over his shoulder at the walls going up behind him before answering. “For all of Wyatt’s airs, he was lower than the poorest child in Pine Gap. Illegitimate. Driven from his home. Without my family he was nothing.”

  For his smug glee, she nearly dumped the water bucket over him. Instead, she tucked her hands under her arms, feeling guilty for encouraging Isaac. She’d expected a lighthearted story from their childhood—Wyatt had been bested in a race, embarrassed at school, something to amuse herself with when he was giving her that disapproving look. But there was nothing funny here. And to laugh at Wyatt’s horrible discovery? Miranda’s good humor vanished. She valued her family enough that she couldn’t laugh to hear that someone had lost theirs.

  Uncertainty. That’s what played across her face. Miranda stood with arms crossed and studied the ground. What had Isaac said about him that made her unable to meet his gaze? Wyatt leaned against the post of the frame, holding it steady as they rammed rocks into the hole around the footing. She didn’t seem afraid of him yesterday, so what had changed? As much as she irritated him at first, he was finally seeing the sincere woman hidden beneath her highfalutin ways. And that worried him. As long as she was high and mighty, he knew Isaac didn’t stand a chance, but Miranda was letting her guard down—not a safe thing to do when Isaac was around. Isaac’s two weaknesses were pretty women and finding ways to avoid work. Marry a rich girl like Miss Wimplegate and he might be able to indulge both failings at once.

  And Wyatt wasn’t just whistling Dixie about her looks, either. He’d seen her plenty of times over the last week, and still she knocked the breath out of him. Today she had on the finest gown he’d seen yet. The pale pink gave her olive complexion a glow while the wide neckline framed her delicate collarbone and hinted of what lay south of there.

  The rocks had been fitted, and here came Josiah Huckabee with a wheelbarrow of cement. “Howdy, Wyatt.” He smiled as he tilted the wheelbarrow and dumped the contents into the hole. “Betsy’s been telling me about that new gal in town. I reckon that’s her over there?”

  Wyatt glared at the sixteen-year-old. “She’s a lady, Josiah, not a new gal. You be on your best manners. You hear?”

  Josiah’s eyes twinkled. “I hear ya, chief. Gonna go over to that Katie Ellen and try to spark myself a gal, too.”

  Wyatt rattled the post, tamping it to make certain the cement had settled in the bottom. “I don’t know what sparking has to do with it,” he said. “I’m building the church.”

  Fowler approached, his powerful forearms bared and already smudged with toil. “Wyatt, been meaning to tell you that we lost that fellow who’d been poking around Rinehart’s place.”

  “You lost him?” Wyatt picked up a shovel to clean where Josiah had spilled. “How in the world?”

  Fowler shot a juicy stream of tobaccy to the ground. “It’s a sight when a dozen men can’t keep an eye on one outlaw. We got thinned out going through Watson’s pass, and when we regrouped on the other side, there wasn’t hide nor hair of him. Just the rope. Goes to show we need to get ourselves organized, especially if the law don’t do their job.”

  Wyatt’s skin crawled. As far as anyone knew, the man hadn’t harmed anyone, but what had he been doing at the sale barn that night?

  “I’ll be watching for him,” he said.

  “If the man has any sense, he’s put Hart County behind him. He’s got to know we take care of our own.” Fowler’s spine stiffened. “Lookee there. Caesar Parrow came to town. I’ve got a word to speak with him about his coon dog. Hear tell it’s getting into Mrs. Rankin’s chickens, and we can’t have that.” And he strode off to do his unassigned duty.

  The four walls were up and set, along with one of the interior support walls. Three more to go when they called for dinner. The church ladies had put out a hearty spread. Wyatt helped himself to chicken and du
mplings and went to join the workers in the shade.

  With her skirt blowing behind her, Miranda stood into the wind, shading her eyes as she peered down the road. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was looking for her grandpa. Cutting across picnic blankets and baskets, Wyatt took the short path to join her, plate in hand.

  “He took out?”

  Miranda blinked into the wind and nodded. “I worry about him so. He’s changed since Grandmother died, and it’s gotten worse since we left.”

  “Should we go fetch him?”

  Miranda lowered her hand. “If I find him, I can’t make him come back.” The lace around her collar flipped up and brushed against her neck.

  “You’re very patient with him.”

  “I love him. Taking care of him is part of the deal.”

  Wyatt rubbed a sore spot over his heart. “I don’t think you realize how special you are.” Seeing her startled reaction, he wished he could swallow the words back down his throat. Instead, he motioned to the table. “Food’s over there.”

  “Isaac,” Fowler cried out. Seated by the Moore girl, Isaac’s shirt was still clean and white. “Why don’t you favor us with one of your poetry recitals?”

  Isaac leaned toward Miss Moore, and whatever he whispered in her ear made her blush. He got to his feet. “I’d be glad to entertain you, seeing how you’ve been working so hard, but since this here is holy ground, maybe I should quote something from the Bible.”

  The women nodded in unison with their fans as they stretched their feet on the ground before them. Miranda had her plate now and Wyatt followed her to the shade. Isaac stepped into the open space, boxed in by the empty frame of a church behind him, and began.

  “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.”

  Wyatt remained standing, transfixed by the simple words his mother had insisted they learn. Isaac’s voice was as smooth as corn silk. He did a fine job of elocuting, for sure.

  “And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind.”

  Wasn’t that what Miranda was exhibiting?

  Isaac continued, but then there was a pause. “ ‘Charity envieth not; nor does it . . . it doesn’t . . .’ ” He floundered.

  Before Wyatt thought, he heard his own deep voice taking over.

  “Charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own . . .”

  He hadn’t realized what he’d done until he saw the surprised looks around him. Behaving unseemly? The very words stabbed his conscience. He halted. “Go on, Isaac,” he said. “You know the rest.”

  Isaac flapped his hand in a helpless gesture. “No, you go on, little brother. You’ve bested me again. Go on and show them how good you are.”

  “I didn’t mean to stop you.”

  But Isaac was done. With a perfect blend of resignation and nonchalance, he gathered his plate and Miss Moore and meandered away from the church yard.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Fowler said. “He’s a sore loser. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.”

  Used to having a little brother who would never let him win? Isaac and their two older brothers were a family. They’d merely picked up Wyatt along the way like a stray dog allowed to follow them home. If it weren’t for Pa and Ma, their pa and ma, he would’ve run away many years ago, but his parents tried to cover for their sons’ resentment. And maybe that made it worse. Maybe they covered too well and brought more attention to him.

  Wyatt dropped to the ground next to Miranda as she murmured some polite words of praise for his performance, but he took no joy in her comments.

  She sacrificed for her family, while he couldn’t stop competing with his. What must she think of him?

  She’d met nearly every woman at the barn raising . . . or church raising, rather. Betsy had been most helpful in dragging ladies over to meet her, although her introductions were usually awkward at best. But still, Miranda had no clue where the painting could be. Who bought it in Boston and to whom did they send it? Scanning the yard, she didn’t see one person likely to appreciate an oil painting of a French American from the last century. Not one. Now, if it’d been a thick quilt or a pair of sturdy boots, there’d be no end to her suspects.

  And then there was Wyatt, whom she’d completely misjudged. On top of the building he lay stretched out on a beam, reaching down to nail the wooden peg into the support at the corner. She’d thought him unsocial, proud, but now she understood. He didn’t think he’d be accepted. He had to prove himself. She knew what it was like to be the lowest ranked person in the room, and while she usually elected to hide, he tried to compete.

  Wyatt’s mallet clattered among the rocks below him.

  “Wyatt dropped his mallet,” Betsy’s brother sang as he hopped from beam to beam.

  Tired of standing by, observing, Miranda stepped forward. “I’ll get it.” Snatching the mallet, she raised it above her head, but didn’t come near to reaching Wyatt.

  He rested his head on the beam. “I’ll come down.”

  “No need,” she said. “I’ll get a ladder.”

  With Betsy’s help she leaned one against the corner post. Wyatt held it steady above her. She climbed up, juggling the mallet while holding on to the rungs. Miranda wanted to do this for him, but she hadn’t counted on it being so far up. She also hadn’t counted on the way the ladder leaned right into where Wyatt lay. He let loose of the ladder to reach for the mallet and it swayed. Miranda’s eyes widened. Wyatt made a mad grab and caught the top rung with his left hand.

  “I guess you’re going to have to come closer.”

  That’s what she was afraid of. Another step brought her to his shoulder. He waved with his right hand on the other side of the beam. That was her goal. Another step lifted her level to him. Face to face. She’d never noticed how green his eyes were, or how strong the cheekbones emerging above his beard were. They stood there before the whole town, waiting . . . on what?

  “Your mallet.” The rungs pressed into her chest as she reached around to place it into Wyatt’s empty hand.

  “Thank you.”

  Josiah Huckabee shimmied across the beams. “Ain’t you gonna give her a kiss, Wyatt? She came all the way up here.”

  Wyatt’s eyes turned a shade darker. Miranda couldn’t move away, for lying there she saw the young man who was rejected by his family and picked on by his older brothers. She didn’t mean to sway toward him. She should just refuse. . . .

  With a clang, Wyatt dropped the mallet again. Miranda straightened as it dashed against the rocks.

  “Josiah, you get my mallet this time,” Wyatt ordered. “Miss Wimplegate has already done me a favor. I can’t ask for more.”

  His eyes held hers, but she had no reason to stay. Jerking out of her trance to start down, she bounced the ladder off its resting place against the post. Wyatt pulled it back again. “This ladder has got a bad case of the wobbles,” he said.

  So did her knees. Without another word, Miranda descended while silently chastising herself. The unfortunate children of Boston had found their way into her heart, but Wyatt Ballentine wasn’t a child. He was a laborer, a working man, and as such he needed neither her pity nor her charity.

  Beyond that she had nothing to offer him.

  Chapter 11

  Monday had finally come. The wagon broke through a tight spot in the trail. Wyatt leaned to the side to keep from getting whacked by a branch that jutted into the road. Mustn’t get his spanking new duds snagged before the boss man saw him. On second thought, the sooner his clothes were ruined, the sooner he could return to dressing like a reasonably intelligent man. He di
rected the mules to Widow Sanders’ house, threw the brake, hopped down, and jogged through the scattered bushes to the door. Before he could knock, the door swung open and Elmer Wimplegate stepped outside with hat in hand and cane on his arm.

  “Glad to see you early.” The man consulted his watch, closed it with a click, and dropped it into his pocket.

  “It’s sale day.” Wyatt tugged on his waistcoat, eager to start the day well with his boss. “I’ve been waiting for weeks to get this mess cleaned out.”

  The door cracked open and Miranda eased out. Wyatt removed his new hat. Her skin still bore the softness of early morning. Her hair had been freshly combed and styled. He reckoned she still smelled like soap, or even something fancier. Roses, maybe?

  “You look nice today,” he said. If only she’d give him half a chance.

  She looked down as if she didn’t remember that she wore a pale green dress. “It’s nothing special.”

  “It’s nice,” he persisted.

  “And look at you.” She gestured to his fancy suit, but before he could respond she’d gone all pink and turned away. “Grandfather, what will we do for lunch? I don’t have one packed.” Her dark eyes shone warmly on her grandfather.

  Wyatt rolled a button on his new coat between his fingers. Why did her gentle concern make him sad? Was it because he had no one who made it their business to fuss over him?

  “No need to bring food,” Wyatt said. “The ladies bring vittles to sell.”

  Elmer poked at Wyatt with his cane. “Widow Sanders is cooling your rhubarb pie even now. She said to tell you she’d have it to the ring in plenty of time.”